Girl With Submachine Gun
by Pallidus Mors
Summary: A short fic depicting an older, more disturbing Relena. Just a little experiment with yuri lime on my part. Warning(s): Yuri, het, mild angst, etc.


Girl With Submachine Gun   
  
Pairing: RxOC, Rx13  
Genre: Romance/Angst   
Warning: Yuri, Yaoi, Het (mild, I don't want to kill you here), Angst (mild), OOC Relena   
Note: I don't know about this one, tell me what you think, is it complete smut or is it palatable? (I'm leaning towards smut myself.)   
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing.   
  
All the girls are the same, this one with red hair, the last with blonde. Young bodies half-formed; pert breasts with small nipples, large questioning eyes that harbor no ill will, no deception when they meet my icy gaze. These children are no different, as they lie spooned against me in sleep so completely trusting it sickens me. Cuddling the bony faintly feminine body to my chest, pressing her to my breasts as she is consumed in a drunken haze brought on by one too many glasses of fine wine and my reverent kisses, I note for the first time how young this one is, no older than fourteen and still very much a child. Is it wrong to do this, go about corrupting little girls in some quest to see myself destroyed when I look into their eyes heavy with lust?   
  
I am undoing all I have built one child at a time. It is in these girls who I lure to my side and then untruss in hotel rooms that smell of dust and cheap sex that I find solace from the other half of myself. The half that abhors these nights and weekends spent in seclusion when I don dark glasses and contact lenses and let my hair fall unbridled down the slender curve of my back. That part of me who rules five days a week and then collapses, a pathetic little girl crying for Daddy to come home to her, lost in her castle with the empty honeymoon suite and the closet full of wedding dresses. The two parts of me which can never amalgamate, the fighting pieces of myself that give birth to a monster who feasts on the flesh of virgins.   
  
She is beautiful; a tiny bird-like creature with a shock of hair like flame and skin so pale it's almost translucent. When I saw her sitting in the park with her schoolbooks clasped to her flat chest I knew she was going to be the newest conquest. I always go for the exquisitely exotic, beguilingly androgynous children with large eyes and pouting lips. Whores can't sate the hunger any longer, though they did once. Part of the release is in the knowledge that you are corrupting, defiling something perfect and making it ugly. It's like killing yourself over and over again every weekend and walking away from it smiling. I need the abuse, the hurt looks and the guilt-ridden eyes of the proverbial mornings after. The wild nights of passion and tears, of opening up the virgins like flowers, thought that's a pretty cliché comparison, virgins to flowers.   
  
Foudroyant, bedazzling, I shock them and draw them to me with glittery necklaces and kind words. I'm mamma and daddy and lover all rolled into one and sometimes they can't differentiate the three personas. The blonde stranger with electronic eyes who provides a warm shoulder to cry on, listens to all of their girlish galimatias with such deep understanding and then beds them with accuracy and mechanic precision ensuring that they feel every brush of my fingertips across their skin.  
  
She never knows exactly what I'm after when I leer at her across the bar, swirling my drink and ordering her another. I keep her confused, befuddled until the child is quite inebriated and beyond resistance. The President of the UESA is a pedophile and a rapist who preys upon Catholic schoolgirls after her last Friday meeting. It's the dark place few people explore, the manifestation of your character flaws come forth with astonishing clarity to banish all common sense and take control of your body.   
  
Last night I killed this girl, took her dogma and shattered it in one swift motion, sent her writhing in raptures at my touch and then proceeded to fuck her silly. I left her naked, exposed and raw before I would give her physical release. Now she lies beside me, an arm flung carelessly across my chest. I touch her ruddy locks tangled with the sheets, take in the effect of lashes dark and clumped with mascara, makeup smeared by my urgent kisses. I kiss her neck noting that the skin is pale, almost as stark a white as the sheets. The bedclothes are a mess, sticky and reeking of alcohol and sweat, drawn about my waist and binding my ankles. My mouth tastes sour and my face feels like sandpaper. I feel wonderfully dirty and evil on more levels than I care to acknowledge. This is what I am searching for, the self-loathing only the destruction of myself can bring. How I hated the princess I was, hated her then and hate her still, this is my revenge against her. To spite her I devour them, pretty, virginal, naïve, everything I used to be before I tarnished the pristine image of a perfect daughter beyond resurrection.  
  
She glances up and smiles at the sight of me, stretching languidly and reaching for her white cotton panties that lie just under the creaking mattress. I have thoroughly ruined this one, taken from her the essence of purity she held, the aura is gone in the faint sunlight of a winter afternoon, replaced by sex and cosmetics.   
  
My perfect neophyte, just like me in her movements, her speech which hints of class, high breeding and private schools, I bet she's Daddy's angel and has a horse named Butterscotch too. She could be me, even now she follows my path, happy and reveling in the warmth of the lingering afterglow, the elation of sexual rebirth. How I remember that first morning, when the entire world seemed new and the way the sunlight glinted off the algae covered waters of the garden ponds was suddenly fascinating. I do not pretend that it is sex that does this to girls like me, rather it is the sudden liberation from our own virginity, the casting aside of something dark and creeping beneath the serenity of white dresses and standing three feet apart when dancing with a boy.   
  
My titian-haired vision blinks in the harsh wash of sunlight and sashays into the shower. Watching the sway of her hips, the movement of her tiny breasts and the twist of her hair is almost enough to make me grab hold of her again and take her once more, but I have rules and they must be followed. I cannot touch the children after the first and only night if I am to remain nothing more than a fantasy made flesh a dirty secret, an umbrageous figure shrouded in mystery. I want to be an icon, a memory, not real and physical. . I want to be the girl with the submachine gun, blowing away her childish misconceptions  
  
  
  
She is running the shower now and so I take my leave, writing the note in my florid hand, carefully worded and scribed on a piece of white paper so typical as to be unnoticed by her for several moments as she searches for me in the empty room. I gather up my clothing, pulling on the stockings and the glittery red pumps, the slinky black dress with the red lace bra and panties. I take my purse and a bottle of red wine, a quarter of it gone. When she exits the bathroom I won't be here anymore, I'll be in my private limo in Brussels where I have a conference at two with the Minister of Intergalactic Affairs, Mali about lowering tariffs in western Africa.   
  
I can only imagine what it will be like for her to find her lover gone the way I did my first morning, a small note in curt polite language and enough money to pay the chambermaid all that remain. She might be crushed or she might be angry. I suppose she may even find it all immensely amusing and laugh as she leaves the place. The best part about destroying virgins is that I never see them deflate, you can only make up my own scenarios.  
  
I walk to the train station, fingering my Eurail Youth Pass contentedly; dark glass obscuring my blue eyes with my hair tied in a chignon at the base of my neck. I'm just another woman in a black dress on holiday, smiling into the crisp April air. Nobody can pick me apart from the crowd, my shapely calf and the fine leather of my red Venetian sandals with the three-inch heels the only things that place me above the dingy students backpacking across the continent who mull about on the platform. Even here I reek of breeding, but it no longer bothers me to have the look of an inbred princess, I have come in my own way to accept what I am and that I cannot change it.   
  
A girl next to me smiles, revealing large white teeth and a freckled nose. Her skin is light but sunburnt and zits dot her hairline. Blonde curls fall to widely spaced shoulders and she carries her backpack with ease. Ample bosom free of any restrain, a black tee shirt and faded denim pants, dirty jagged nails. I watch the fresh-faced English girl, that is I assume she is English for I detect a hint of a British accent in her French as she chats amenably with a boy to her right. The urge to slide next to her and run my fingers through her wild mop of hair is strong, a pulsating desire rushing through my limbs and into my groin. I cannot do it though; responsibility awaits me in the form of several tons of steel hurtling towards us to return the President. The spoiled child in me screams as the pretty college student leaves the platform with her friends, calling in bad Italian this time.   
  
I am jelous because I am not much older than she is, I just turned 24 this month, and I have to act as if I am an adult. It is not as though I was ever a true child, protégé are never allowed to be children and I was Daddy's little helper form the time I can remember. They were always planning great things for me, those fake parents with their dacha and their ski resort and the summers on the Rivera. We were putridly rich, three homes and scads of servants. I was always expected to be proper and kind. I doubt that girl even knows which fork to use at formal dinners, let alone the names of all those other utensils. She probably comes from common stock, a house in the plastic coated suburbs and a happily ever after that involves white picket fences, not castles.   
  
When I was a schoolgirl I used to invite myself over to other girls houses just so I could watch their families be normal. I craved normalcy; I wanted in the worst way to be bourgeois. It is quite funny if you think on it long enough.   
  
Janet was a girl who was so normal I worshiped her for it. Took her under my wing and became her best friend out of a fascination with the patterns of her life, her family and her vernacular. We dressed alike, spoke alike, and were inseparable for the entire semester before I went to Odessa to meet my mother during summer break. I remember coming home the summer of my twelfth year speaking like 'common filth' and the beating it incurred. My father was not present but Mommy was irate. She went after me with the poker, I though it quite amusing until she slapped me across the face and knocked me to the ground. I never said 'cool' again.   
  
"Cst-ce que je peux voir votre billet de train, s'il vous plait?" The conductor is speaking rather rudely, as if I didn't have a pass. I could have had a private jet take me back, he should be bowing down before me; I probably gave him his job. I smile at him and flash the pass, watching, as he feels foolish for the accusatory glare he was giving me. Unlike the students surrounding me, I have first class.   
  
The train takes off in a swirl of smog and clanking, the cars lurching slightly as we speed across the countryside. Green hills roll out around me, the neat suburban homes turning to a more rural area. I count cows idly, and twirl a stray curl about my index finger.   
  
So I'm heading home, getting back to the word of coffee table terrorism, where I can control anybody with the sound of my cultured voice rising and falling in the familiar patterns. Soon I'll return to Brussels, to the old drafty castle with its corridors full of giggling minister's wives and men in pinstriped suits where I'm the perfect, virginal daughter of the Peacecrafts. Sometimes those rich women, wives of important men get together and bitch about their lives, how horrid it is to be so filthy rich. Complaining about how hard it is to be rich and adored and powerful doesn't suit me, when I get flustered I simply take on of my little screw breaks. I get flustered often. You haven't lived until you've destroyed something lovely, something pure and delicate and barely beginning to enjoy its existence. I wonder, did he find this immense pleasure in destroying me?   
  
It must have been fun for him, having the scared little girl playing queen of the world. Taking me on the varnished table we sat about during those dull political meetings when I would try to piece all the strange half truths together and then manipulate the situation, he must have enjoyed it, the fuck. Ah, but I mustn't speak ill of the dead, the honorable dead no less. He was a great man, a brilliant man, a person of unquestionable valor. He also liked to screw children, with a penchant for Peacecrafts. Maybe it was our long blonde hair, or the way our blue eyes can appear innocent long after we grow jaded and wise. No matter, whatever it was that made Treize love us, he did. I know he loved my brother, the Lightening Count spent many nights in his superior's bed. I can see it in his distant gaze, in the way his mouth wilts like a dying flower at the mention of the General. And then there was me; I suppose it was a way of defining his rebellious lover, fucking Zechs' sister in his stead. It's easier to blame a dead man, they can't apologize, or change, can't grow old and feeble and prove your accusations wrong, they are merely memories.   
  
He came to me at the pinnacle of my desperation, as melodramatic as that may sound, and shattered my last barrier against reality. Treize was the breaking point, the place where Relena died and I was resurrected from her ashes. I'm cynical, distrusting, a wonderful liar; I like sex, and prefer vodka to champagne. I'm a bad girl. If my parents were alive they'd have conniptions.   
I want to thank him, the cruel man who left me alone, panties ripped from their elastic, buttons dangling from my blouse, bra strap snapped. Thank him for showing me the truth of the world, that lust doesn't foreshadow love, that there is no good or bad, simply shades of morphing gray that twist to fit your perception. I was not raped, just fucked. I didn't have an epiphany; I was simply shown the truth devoid of frills and pretense.   
  
I can see the city now, old and grand, the tiers of the palace rising into the blue sky. Time once more to smile, to giggle and nod. I have to put on my mask, the one of the simpering, spoilt princess playing at politics. Appearing demure and dignified is the best strategy for somebody young and pretty as I, it really scares the crotchety old men to see a young woman disarm monopolies in the course of an afternoon. But, do you want to know something? I can't wait until the next time I break fee, I want the taste of bare skin beneath my lips, the sound of a high childish voice calling to me from across the expanse of a hotel mattress, long for the sight of somebody to ruin.   
  
  
End  
  
A/N: You've come this far, please review!   



End file.
